


madeleine

by sugarandvoid



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Cooking, Fluff, Food, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 11:36:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8326372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarandvoid/pseuds/sugarandvoid
Summary: It's been a long time since you've cooked with someone else.





	

**Author's Note:**

> aghhhhh i'm on a real taz kick so here you go... hot n tasty taakitz straight from the Microsoft Word oven  
> apologies for any inaccuracies to canon/character

For all the chaos in your life, it’s nice to keep things simple sometimes.

It’s true that you haven’t cooked for a long time. Before you made the macarons for the BOB- on a whim, to compensate for not spending any money- you could have almost forgotten it. But food is your calling. The umbra staff, giant thousand-teethed death worms and rigorous magic tutoring are nice, sure, but the kitchen is always home. The oil burns permanently stained on your skin, knife scars from when you were young and only tenuously in control of the knife- that’s you.

That’s home.

Food is predictable. Honest. Real.

_That’s some fucking Sizzling it up With Taako shit, that is_ you say to Kravitz when he nervously offers to cook with you on his next date. Turns out the grim reaper himself is woefully lacking in mortal currency and would, contrary to your belief, really like to do something simple and relaxing the next time you “go out”. Which is what he calls a date, and that’s totally chill, you know? Even if you’re not going out. At first it filled you with twitches and butterflies- cooking with or for the people you love hasn’t gone entirely to plan in the past.

It becomes clear instantly that Kravitz is far from a chef. He doesn’t have his long, draping hair tied back (but you make him, and _fuck_ he looks handsome with a ponytail), he’s wearing a suit jacket/tracksuit bottoms ensemble and he hasn’t heard of a poached egg before. His notice of poaching extends to the souls he took of those stupid enough to get executed for it. You mean, apparently. If he’s lying to get your hands gently laced with his as he tenderly, awkwardly drops the pouch into the boiling water, you’re in no way complaining.

 In this, he’s remarkably mortal. He’s still the Grim Reaper, you keep the Raging-Flaming-Poison sword of _whatever_ close by in case he’s pulling the long con, but he’s as unsure of himself as any living being could be. There’s something so tender- loving, wanting- in the way you move behind him as he ladles the poppy-seed batter into the madeleine tray. Your arms, snaked around his, generating a gentle friction (though you removed the jacket a long time ago), an intimate warmth.  
  
Kravitz leans back into your shoulders fondly when he’s done. He grins wide as you follow the position when he bends to slide the dainty cakes into the oven; warmth radiating off the oven like it could, is, his own.

When he waltzes you hand-on-hips into the main part of your quarters, decked in a miasma of colour and light, you let the blade slump lazily to the ground. You find you’re not worried for the oven any more. With your bare toes treading through the soft shag, then clumsily onto each other, it’s like time doesn’t really exist. It’s a negative space, if you will. The scene changes, you’re cloaked with a flowing seafoam dress, enveloped by the very material of space, just dancing. Until you lose yourself. Kravitz holds you firm and gentle; like a glass bauble that might break under a heavy touch. You take the time to recall when cooking had seemed this easy and fluid. Death, it seems, is an easy audience. The whole time, he never stops smiling. There’s a strange look on his face- apprehension, maybe- but he’s obviously happy.

“Taako, dear” he murmurs. You lean in, face centimetres from his only by height. Unconsciously, you hook your arms further under his.  
“Yes, _dear_?” you whisper back into the crook of his neck. It’s a weird pet name. But in his now lilting accent, it’s _good_ , like spider webs and fine winter frost.  
Kravitz blinks before he can articulate.  
“The oven- it’s, uh, bleeping. You wanna take an uh, look at that?”  
_Oh, fuck_ is the only thing rushing through your mind as you yank out of position and dash towards the frantic bleeps.

So it turns out the madeleines aren’t ruined. It kinda teaches you about paying attention, not getting all fucking sappy with your skeleton sorta-boyfriend, but Taako Taco is a hard man to teach a lesson. They’re not poisoned, at least. The eggs are fucking great. Kravitz- he’s been missing out, as you can glean from his pleased reaction at the bursting yolk.  
“Oh wow,” he mutters as the fork goes in “you miss food when you don’t need to eat it, you know.”  
You smile and curl your fingers in with his again, lazing parallel on the floor. Two different worlds. But it’s interesting.  
Dessert is just as good. A little burnt, maybe, but Kravitz is once again all over it. The little shell cakes are dipped communally in honey and sugar. Sure, the honey will make the sugar clump. You don’t focus on that. These little timed motions between the two of you, reaching and dipping, feels like a metronome. It’s comfortable, natural. Like you were meant to be in sync. Taako Taco and Death alone together eating mini desserts on the floor.  
Before you can put your hand out for the final madeleine, Kravitz reaches to clutch it out of the air. He points to his mouth with his free hand.  
“Dear” he murmurs again, with that irresistible accent. “Do I have, ah- a little something on my face?”  
Oh boy, he sure does. There’s a tiny streak of golden honey on his softened face, clear and sticky and sweet. Just as you reach to sweep it off on your thumb Kravitz clasps your hand again and drags his face to yours, enveloping you deep in a soft, longing kiss, far from chaste. When it breaks hesitantly he looks you square in the eye. His deep, oaken eyes can almost pierce you straight through.  
“I do now, huh?”  
The sentence lolls to the back of your mind as he kisses you again. It’s rough, passionate and as honest as food itself. His lips are chapped, you balm yours. His scent- bone, ash, spirits, rotting wood- mingles with yours, glitter and flower perfume, and that of the cooking. Caramelized sugar, butter, honey as thick as tar. You don’t stop, don’t get up and won’t leave. Time once again enters this negative state. Everything else can wait. Kravitz kisses you, keeps kissing you, languishing in the kiss for what seems like hours. Death is a welcomed presence here, so long as he wants to come. As if you’d been doing it forever, your hands link again, pursed by bodies in perfect tandem.


End file.
